


Though Your Heart is Breaking

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Backstory, Divorce, Domestic Violence, Douglas has terrible taste in women, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Lies, Physical Abuse, Secrets, but really good friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas present for pudu in which Douglas finds himself in a bad situation with Helena, in every conceivable way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though Your Heart is Breaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pudupudu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pudupudu/gifts).



> This fic deals with domestic abuse/violence, so please, please, please be cautious if you think it's something that will do you any kind of harm.

On the list of things that Douglas does very well, lying is right at the top--somewhere amidst deflection, distraction, and legerdemain. The carefully-constructed walls he’s built around himself hide as much as protect, and any crumbling that shows is the result of deliberate calculation on his part. He’s learned through years of living that high, tough walls make people want to scale them, to break through in the destructive instincts of humans everywhere in a misguided attempt to “make him better.” But Douglas is clever and an expert at smuggling things, tangible or not. So, he outright lies, he tells half-truths, he bends and twists and stretches facts until they suit his needs, whatever they happen to be at the moment. He’s very, _very_ good at it, and he hasn’t been caught out in anything serious in years.

Until the day Martin Crieff brings him a cardboard cup of the most god-awful coffee he’s had in his life, and the truth does everything but set him free.

**********  
When he first married Helena Moorsby, he had been, as always, cautiously optimistic that _this_ time he’d got it right. He’d been off the drink for years, and had just started a somewhat-humbling job with the world’s smallest charter air firm--a one-jet, one-woman operation in some godforsaken place called Fitton, with an aging battleax of a matriarch and a man-sized labrador puppy of a steward.

He and Helena had met at his second wedding, of all places. She had been employed at the little flower shop where the second Mrs. Richardson had found gerberas in the most perfect ( _most perfectly awful_ , his mind supplied) shade of tangerine--the perfect compliment, she said, to the perfect lime green groomsmen’s waistcoats, the perfect electric blue bridesmaids’ dresses, and the perfect bubblegum pink boutonniere he himself was wearing. “Perfect,” it seemed, was the word of the day. The word of the month, in fact. He was reasonably certain that if there was a word more obnoxiously used as a universal adjective, it hadn’t been invented.

The riotous profusion of colors was nearly enough to make Douglas dizzy. It had certainly given him a headache, and it was all he could do to stand there and repeat the vows after the vicar. He’d had some practice before, of course, but there was something about the predatory way Fiona had looked at him across their joined hands that made it even more difficult to focus through the haze of the third of a bottle of whiskey he’d drunk before the ceremony.

But it wasn’t like it mattered. The entire ceremony was only a prelude to more important things--the marriage-certificate-thin union of a man and a woman who were, ostensibly at least, bound together for the sake of the child that had been quietly growing for several months now. Fiona’s announcement that she was “blessed with child,” as she had put it, had shocked Douglas so much that he didn’t touch a drop of alcohol for nearly a week, choosing instead to stare blankly at whatever flat surface presented itself to him. He’d asked her to marry him out of a sense of obligation, and stayed after the miscarriage out of inertia.

At his wedding, Douglas had flirted shamelessly with Helena, and she’d responded in kind. A chance meeting at a pub weeks later led to coffee on a morning and drinks out at night. What followed, while technically not an affair, wasn’t emotional fidelity either. Not that Fiona had minded all that much. As long as Douglas had dutifully showed up to family events, she didn’t particularly care what he did on his off time.

Their marriage lasted a grand total of two years, five months, and seventeen days before the cracks between them turned to fissures and she left, citing “irreconcilable differences” which he translated into “I want to marry someone else.” He’d known about the affair with the builder next door nearly from the beginning. It was hard not to when you’d seen your wife propped up against the builder’s bedroom window on the way home from a cancelled flight and observed the love marks on her breasts after a two-week jaunt to South Africa. He graciously, he felt, left her the flat, the furniture, and half of their joint bank account, taking only his old Air England uniform and his father’s diaries with him.

Despite their relatively short acquaintance, Helena had turned out to be a godsend, putting him up on her sofa (and later a bed, and later still _her_ bed) when no one else would. He’d quickly fallen in love when she’d cared for him in a way no woman had in his life. If they had the odd row after he looked a little too intently at another woman, or failed to call when a flight was delayed, or didn’t remember to pick up something from the shops on the way home, it was nothing more than was expected, given the kind of woman Helena was and the lack of quality in the man she’d settled for.

**********  
The first time Helena had called Douglas a worthless layabout, it was true. She had just come home from fourteen hours at the flower shop which she now owned to find her husband asleep on the sofa still in his dressing gown, a mug of tea on the table beside him and Casablanca playing on the telly. He’d done none of the housework she’d meant for him to finish that day, choosing instead to nurse the tail end of the sinus infection he’d been fighting for weeks. She was reasonable in her anger; after all, it wasn’t her fault he’d made promises he couldn’t keep. How, she asked, could he expect her to rely on a partner who was always making excuses?

**********  
When Helena’s sister got married, Douglas nearly didn’t make the wedding. They were stranded in Managua, waiting for a late-season hurricane to pass before making their way back to England. He’d already called and explained the situation, and Helena was disappointed but understanding. “Just be safe, whatever you do darling,” she told him. “I’d rather that than you try to make it for some stupid civil ceremony anyway.”

Douglas smiled down the line at her, though he knew she couldn’t see. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he promised, and hung up.

The instant they were cleared to fly, Douglas took charge, using every trick in his vast repertoire to get them home only seven hours behind schedule. It was good enough for him to be standing by his wife’s side as she watched her baby sister say her vows. The look on her face when she saw him walk in was worth the 5,000 cordobas he’d paid ATC to put them first in the queue for take off.

**********  
The first time Helena kept Douglas from seeing his friends at the pub, it was necessary. He really _hadn’t_ been pulling his weight at home recently, doing only the minimal amount of housework when he wasn’t on one of Carolyn’s near-incessant flights and bringing home less than his half of the household’s total income. In fact, if it weren’t for Helena, they’d be out on the streets by now, busking at the corners to earn enough for a postage stamp of a flat. Wasn’t he grateful, she said, that she had the self-discipline and focus he so clearly lacked and could support him as he faced what dregs of his career were left after decades of poor choices?

**********  
Mrs. Moorsby absolutely adored Douglas, charming and funny and undeniably handsome as he was. When Helena brought him home to her mother for the first time, he became the only partner in living history who met with her approval. Douglas spent hours in her company, listening to her stories and helping with the meals. His secret love of cooking found an outlet in the Moorsby kitchen, and the nuggets of Helena’s childhood he gleaned from her mother while peeling vegetables endeared his wife to him all the more.

The visit ended with Douglas declared “a keeper” and admonished to treat her eldest daughter well. “I will,” he said, as he bent to drop a kiss on the back of the matriarch’s hand. “She’s worth everything I have.”

**********  
The first time Helena threw something at Douglas, it was an accident. She’d been stirring soup on the cooker and had turned around when he came in hours late from his flight. It had slipped from her fingers as she’d gestured vehemently in her worry and anger. He’d ducked, the spoon had missed, and they’d had a laugh about it days later. Or, at least, Helena had laughed. Wasn’t he lucky, she mused, that she had such poor aim?

**********  
The Christmas party Helena threw for her company was a lively affair. Spirits were high, the booze was free-flowing, and couples were mingled among the relatively tasteful decorations in various states of amour. Douglas noticed several of the women observing him shrewdly, but took no notice until they started to gather in clumps, pointing less and less discretely at him the more and more they drank. Late in the evening, he meandered over near one of the clumps, casually plucking dessert off the tables behind them, eavesdropping unabashedly.

“Who’d have thought,” one of them slurred to the group, “that the Queen Bitch herself could have snagged such a...such a.....”

“A _toyboy_?”

The other women giggled drunkenly before another piped up. “Maybe he’s really a frog she’s trapped in that body. You know. Because she’s a witch.” More twittering.

“Well, it’s certainly not her looks. Or her personality, the harpy. Maybe she’s hired him for the night.”

Nods all around. “Yes, probably. _I’ve_ certainly never seen him before. How much d’you think he charges?”

“Phillipa would know. She probably booked him. God knows Herself doesn’t lift a finger around here.”

It’s all that Douglas can take. He briefly contemplated saying something, but that’s not really his style--he’s always been a man of action. So, instead, he made his way back to his wife, sliding his arms around her waist as she fiddled with one of the displays and kissing the back of her neck.

A hot flush climbed up her cheeks. “Douglas! What are you up to?”

Douglas said nothing, merely spinning her around and leading her to the dance floor. It was a slow, romantic song and they glid around effortlessly, in tune as always while dancing. At the end, just when she was about to applaud, he took her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly, right in the center of the room. He put as much passion and affection as he could into the kiss without getting them charged with public indecency, then released her. True to form, Helena didn’t falter on her feet or let her knees melt. Instead, she looked at him with sparkling eyes and slid her fingers through the hair at his temple before dropping a chaste kiss on his lips.

She smiled softly at him “What was that for?”

Douglas hummed a bit, then said “Because I love you” and pulled her into a solid embrace, swaying gently to the next song. The spent the rest of the night on the dance floor, and if Douglas snuck a glance now and then at the chattering women from before, noting with devilish enjoyment their bafflement, Helena didn’t notice and he didn’t explain.

**********  
The first time Helena hit Douglas, it wasn’t intended to hurt. He’d made some remark without thinking to which she’d taken offense and she’d cuffed him ‘round the ear. It was playful, she said. Merely her way of making him take notice of what he was saying in polite company. When he’d pointed out that her nails had scraped his cheek slightly, she’d apologized off-hand and kissed it better. It wasn’t as if he shouldn’t have expected it, she told him, making comments like that where someone could hear.

**********  
Some weeks later, Douglas entered the Portakabin only 25 minutes late, grumbling about the rain outside, the traffic on the way in, the water in his shoes--anything and everything was fair game for his acerbic wit. This was more than Douglas’s normal good-natured sniping; this was a Douglas in a thoroughly foul mood. It was enough to make Martin look up curiously from the flight manual revisions he’d been poring over, admonishment for his subordinate on the tip of his tongue. Any chastisement instantly fell away once he saw the bruise spread across Douglas’s right cheek.

“Douglas!” Martin said. “What happened to--to your face?”

Douglas grinned rakishly at him. “Nothing to worry about.”

Martin rushed over, grabbing his chin gently and tilting his cheek towards the dim light. “Nothing?! That’s quite the bruise you’re working on. What happened?”

Douglas lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Now, now Captain. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you the kind of things that could lead to such a mark? Between two individuals who share a small space? A /very/ small space. Perhaps as small as...a duvet?” He waggled his eyebrows.

Martin looked confused for a moment before his face cleared and he dropped Douglas’s chin as if he’d just been burned. “Y-you mean...?! _Really,_ Douglas? I didn’t realize you were so....such a....so _energetic_.”

Another waggle of the eyebrows. “Been in training for decades.”

Martin turned back towards his papers, sniffing haughtily. “Well. I think coming to work looking like that” he gestured to the bruise “is beneath the dignity of a pilot. What are the customers going to think?”

“The customers?” Douglas asked. “You mean the fourteen crates of undyed wool in the cargo hold? I think their time for concern is long past.”

“Well, Carolyn, then. What will _she_ say?”

Douglas shrugged and hung his mac on the peg by the door. “Going by what I saw of her when we were both at Air England, I’d say ‘Congratulations.’”

Martin flushed even more deeply and quickly changed the subject to their flight for the day. Douglas allowed himself a small moment of triumph and the day began.

True to form, when Carolyn came in, Douglas spun the same tale with the quite predictable result of her assuring him that the only way she could care less about his shenanigans would be to think about them more, and since her day was already filled with more important things such as whether he had done the load sheets as asked (she snorted even as she said it), he could be reasonably assured that in no dimension would she care less about what he got up to in the privacy of his own house.

Arthur bounded in half an hour later, which gave Douglas time to concoct the most fabulous explanation. Telling him that he was a spy was good enough. But that he’d been on a mission for Her Majesty in Portugal which had involved no fewer than four helicopter crashes, sixteen baddies, and twenty-seven jars of marmalade had been, in his opinion, a master stroke. As an added benefit, at one point in the story, while he was describing parasailing over shark-infested waters, Martin had rolled his eyes a record-smashing twelfth time and Douglas had grinned at him, delighted in his pedantic misery. Arthur, predictably, had declared the whole operation brilliant and had quizzed Douglas mercilessly on details about whether he had met the Queen, what her dogs were like, whether he thought she liked Marmite, and a million other absurdities before Douglas had given him twenty pounds and sent him off for coffee and cakes.

With everyone he encountered for the rest of the day before takeoff, Douglas spun a different tale, all wild exaggerations, but enough to throw them off the true scent. To Dirk he described the epic bullfight in Madrid, to Carl the skydiving into Berlin. Each of them was so distracted by the stories Douglas wove that they forget to be concerned, and Douglas got off scot free--exactly as he’d planned.

********  
The night Martin brought over a bottle of brown sauce and thus discovered Douglas’s deception was a sleepless one for the First Officer. He was romantic and charming to Helena throughout the evening, and was pretty sure she doesn’t suspect anything is amiss, but the stone in his gut concerned with what Martin would do with the information grew larger and larger. While his wife snuggled close, wrapping her arms around his middle, Douglas stayed awake creating more and more elaborate scenarios in which Martin threatened to expose him and he lost what he supposed was his last chance at love.

The next morning, he arrived relatively early, heading straight for the coffee pot in the hopes the caffeine would jolt him awake. It didn’t. Martin was there already, of course, but pointedly ignored Douglas except for the most necessary of flying duties. There was a cautious kind of neutrality to the cockpit that grated on Douglas’s back teeth. He’d almost rather Martin _had_ said something, to at least end the interminable waiting. But nothing ever happened.

Eventually, the waiting became too much for Douglas and he resolved to tell Helena. That night, he made her favorite dinner and dessert before sitting her down on the sofa and finally, quietly telling her the truth. Once he was done, he sat back against the arm and waited. If he were less of a pessimist, he’d have been cautiously hopeful at her silence, but as it was, he just waited for the yelling to start and her to walk out. Instead, he was surprised when she merely nodded, took a deep breath, and launched into her own secret.

The row that ensued once she’d finished talking was as devastating as it was unavoidable. There was no shouting, no throwing of dishes, just frostbitten discourse and the feeling of ice water in his veins. He’d never suspected the depths of the diffidence she felt for him. Helena broke the news of her affair calmly, rationally. “Don’t you understand, Dougie darling, that it means nothing?” she said. “It’s just a quick rendezvous when you’re away.”

Douglas winced first at the diminutive, then at the casual way she dismissed his sense of betrayal. “If it means nothing,” he fired back “then you’ll have no trouble stopping.”

Helena looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “Stopping?” she asked. “Why would I stop. If you’re not going to stop flying, why should I stop taking are of my needs? Why is everything about you?”

Douglas had no answer. Some part of him knew that her reasoning was fundamentally flawed but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. It was true that he’d often gone on long trips, and that Helena was more than worthy of being cared for and treasured. She’d certainly not been unaffectionate when he returned. She was good for him in so many ways--big and small--that he wasn’t sure he’d recognize himself if he were alone. Helena smoothed so many of his flaws and forced him to examine his worst traits unflinchingly. If self-censorship is the hallmark of a gentlemen, Helena had instilled that in him in spades. He was more careful about what he said and did, and it was all because of her. 

Belatedly, he realized Helena had finished speaking and was looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth, ready for his silver tongue to dig him out of this scrape as it had so many others, but he found there was nothing there. To his mortification, he just gaped at her, eyes wide. “You’re welcome,” she said, smiling at him, and walked back to the kitchen.

Douglas’s mind whirled back the portions of the conversation he remembered hearing and he came to a realization. Helena had just forgiven him. Bonelessly, he slumped back into the cushions, staring into space as he tried to work out why that felt like the wrong answer. He was so engrossed in thought, he didn’t register that Helena’d returned until she shoved a mug of tea into his hands and curled up in the chair across the room. She watched him over the rim of her mug as he sipped at the tea and stared into the fire. The rest of the night was spent in uneasy silence and they slept separately--Helena in the bedroom, Douglas curled up on the sofa by the fire.

Douglas had never been one for blurring the line between home and work. He made it a point never to let on what was happening at Chez Richardson, letting “happily married man” slip off his tongue as easily as any other lie he’d ever told. The reality was much worse. Things had slipped from frosty to arctic in the house. He and Helena hadn’t actually touched each other in weeks, let alone engaged in marital relations. Barely a dozen words were spoken each night, usually placid requests for salt or notifications of post deliveries. There was nothing of the warm banter that usually filled the kitchen while making dinner or the quiet contentment of watching a film on a rainy weekend. Douglas and Helena spent their evenings separately, in every way. They’d become flatmates and nothing more. 

The silence and distance were enormously wearing. Douglas wasn’t built to enjoy the solitary life, and he felt his nerves fray and snap more than he wass used to. In the end, having Helena sharing nothing but space with him did more to precipitate his leaving than her hitting him ever would have. He felt something approaching relief when she announced that she was moving in with George. The night he came home from a week-long trip to Lima and found her half of the wardrobe empty was at once dangerously depressing and enormously freeing. Douglas spent the night in silent contemplation of the drinks cabinet in their dining room, holding an empty scotch glass between his broad, shaking hands.

Eventually, the shock and the pain wore off, and Douglas was left to take stock. Luckily, only his inner-most defenses had crumbled; his public image was still intact, which made him enormously grateful. It would be awhile before he could fortify his decimated protections.

*****  
Being the one who spent the most time with Douglas, it was no surprise Martin was the first to realize there’s a real problem. Arthur had been the victim of a few harsher-than-usual snipings from Douglas, but those were easily explained away by the absurdity of the situations. But when Douglas refused his fourth crew dinner in a row, even though Martin suggested one of his favorite restaurants in Belgium, Martin began to investigate. He wouldn’t necessarily consider himself Miss Marple, but you don’t become a pilot without having a better-than-rudimentary ability to think things through logically.

What Martin observed startled him. A few nights spent sharing hotel rooms was enough to figure out that Douglas wasn’t sleeping much, and a stopover in Marrakech requiring the shedding of jackets and the rolling up of sleeves was enough to show that the older man had lost what looked like a stone in weight.

Neither Carolyn nor Arthur had any idea what was wrong with Douglas, and there was no one else Martin felt comfortable enough to ask. Eventually, he decided the direct approach was the best and offered to buy Douglas a cup of coffee in the canteen. Douglas accepted, his natural wariness outweighed by the miasma of exhaustion that had surrounded him for weeks.

Martin waved Douglas to a table in the corner, and returned shortly thereafter with their coffees. He set Douglas’s‘ down in front of where he had his hands nervously drumming the table. Martin sipped and let the silence surround them for a bit before looking around to make sure no one was watching them. 

“Douglas,” he started, hesitantly. 

Douglas braced himself. 

“Do...” Martin paused, then gathered his courage and pushed on. “Do you trust me?”

Douglas blinked in surprise, mental gears shifting even as he let his mouth answer. “I’d say about as far as I can throw you, Martin, but given your waif-like build, that might be exaggerating a bit.”

Martin let the remark slide, an indication of his seriousness, and Douglas was instantly contrite. Martin had long-before demonstrated he was a better person than that--he at least deserved an honest answer to a question that must have been so difficult for his pride to ask.

“Would I fly with you if I didn’t?” he asked in lieu of an answer.

Martin nodded instantly. “If it meant earning a wage, yes. You’d just find a way to make sure that things turned out in your favor.”

Douglas acknowledged the point. “And how many times have I left you to decide things that would determine my wage?”

Flashes of a long trip via baggage truck in Spain, Douglas ceding increasingly difficult landings to Martin, and, in what Martin considered the ultimate display of trust, fetching Douglas’s daughter from the airport when Gertie was delayed by storms in Cork.

Martin shrugged, pretending not to have thought of any of those things.

Douglas sighed and took a large sip of his coffee. “I do, Martin. In spite of my own best instincts at times. Why? Are you about to impart some revelation to me?”

“No,” Martin said. “I just...I’ve noticed you’ve been...well, I’d say unhappy, but you’re never really happy. More like concerned about something. And I wanted you to know that I noticed. You-you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I just thought you should know.”

Douglas was a bit nonplussed. Neither he nor Martin were overly big on demonstrations of affection, preferring their mutual regard to remain an undercurrent of their interactions. For Martin to have made such an open declaration must mean something, though he wasn’t sure what.

“Thank you, Martin,” he replied, then returned to his contemplation of his coffee.

The silence settled around them, coating Douglas’s tongue and muffling his ears until he could no more confess his troubles than change into a unicorn. Then Martin, in his own stubborn way, broke through.

“When I was a kid,” he started slowly, testing each word in his mouth before he slotted it into place, “I found a dog on the side of the road, badly hurt. He limped when I tried to take him with me, so I carried him home to my father, who was a veterinarian. He did a thorough exam and finally found the problem: the dog had a thorn stuck between the pads of his foot, embedded so deeply that it just rubbed the skin around it raw rather than fall out naturally. It took some doing, but he eventually got the thorn out, though the dog was unhappy with the process. But once the thorn was out and the paw allowed to heal a bit, he walked just fine.”

Douglas raised a sardonic eyebrow at Martin and snorted a bit. “And you think I’m the dog in this story?”

Martin shook his head. “No. I’m the dog. You’re the thorn. I can’t stand sitting by you day after day, knowing that something’s eating at you without trying to fix it.”

A soft huff was his only answer as Douglas gently twirled the mug between his hands. Martin let the silence settle a bit longer, shifting his chair closer. Finally, his patience was rewarded and Douglas raised his head a bit, gazing across the room at something only he could see.

“Do you remember the brown sauce? And...what you learned because of it?” he asked. Martin nodded.

“I have been wracking my brain for weeks, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why you never said anything about it.”

Martin shrugged. “Just...never seemed appropriate, I suppose.”

“Why not?” Douglas asked. “I certainly never gave you any quarter like that.”

“It just...You seemed so happy.,” Martin replied blushing. “I didn’t want to....I couldn’t be the cause of you losing that. I’ve seen where that can lead.”

Douglas pondered that for a moment before nodding. “I never thanked you. I appreciate that you wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Wouldn’t have?” Martin asked. 

Douglas looked caught out. “Ah, I mean won’t.”

Martin was not fooled. “No, you said ‘wouldn’t have.’ That implies something, Douglas.”

A sigh, and Douglas hung his head. “Indeed, it does.”

Martin reached across the table and laid his hand on Douglas’s arm. “Oh. Well then...I’m sorry. Was it...was it something I did?”

“No,” Douglas said slowly. “Just one of those things. After you left, I did some serious thinking, and I came to the conclusion that Helena loved me for me and my many qualities, not for how many rings I had round my sleeve. So....I told her the truth.”

Martin made a sympathetic face. “And she didn’t take it well, I suppose?”

“No. Actually, she didn't mind it at all, not at all. She was glad I told her.”

“Oh?”

“She was glad I’d told her, because it made it easier for her to tell me _her_ secret.”

A pause. “Oh.”

Douglas nodded . “The usual secret, of course. For quite some time, apparently. And I had no idea. Me! You’d think, with all my experience and observational skills, I’d have noticed something was amiss, but alas. Blinded by love, more the fool me.”

Silence. Martin could think of nothing to say that didn’t sound like empty platitudes, settling instead for a gentle squeeze of Douglas’s arm. Douglas smiled at him wanly in return, before standing up abruptly. “Never mind. All in the past now.” Martin was thrown off a bit by the change in subject, but rose with his First Officer and stepped out into the night.

********  
For the next couple of flights, Douglas was more quietly contemplative than usual. He still played word games on the flight deck and dripped with insouciance in the Portakabin, but the spark of mischief that usually meant trouble for some well-meaning customs official was gone. It was as if he was performing the actions of First Officer Richardson by rote--a part in a play rather than risk just being Douglas. The flights were duller for it, and while Martin was initially grateful, he found he missed the enthusiasm from before.

Five weeks after his revelation to Martin in the canteen, Douglas approached him hesitantly. Would he help move Douglas into a smaller flat closer to the airfield now that Helena was gone? Martin was stunned, but managed to suggest they ask Arthur for assistance. Douglas hesitated, but acquiesced, giving Martin the details and relying on him to convince the steward. True to form, Arthur took no convincing, agreeing as soon as the word “help” left Martin’s lips without even knowing what he would be helping with. Martin explained in as few words as possible.

When they showed up to Douglas’s house, they found him in a subdued mood, dressed in jeans and a comfortable jumper. The majority of his belongings were moved easily, since he left the bulk of the house to Helena. He faced the shifting of his possessions with an equanimity that seemed a bit forced to both his companions, though they made no comment. Douglas didn’t own much, the result of several divorces and a naturally pragmatic nature. Truthfully, when everything was moved, the house didn’t look all that different. There were a few empty places on the walls and on the bookshelves, but a stranger wouldn’t have known that there used to be two people living there. Arthur and Martin shoved the last of the boxes in the back of the van and waited for Douglas to emerge. They sat for several minutes, each lost in his thoughts before Martin started to go back and see what was keeping Douglas. Before he made it up the walk, however, he was stopped by the sound of the piano they’d left drifting through the open door. It was something soft and sad that Martin was sure he’d heard before, though he knew not where. Wordlessly, he returned to wait with Arthur, listening as Douglas played his last goodbyes.

Eventually, Douglas had enough and they heard the thump of the key cover as it fell back into place. Martin and Arthur were quick to make it appear as if they haven’t been listening, but Douglas wasn’t fooled. His eyes were a little shadowed, and he gave a self-deprecating shrug to them as he climbed into his Lexus and led the way to his new flat. It was quick work to move everything to the rooms where it belonged, and it wasn’t long before they finished. Douglas ordered dinner for them and fished beer out of his fridge for his guests, settling into his armchair with a glass of apple juice. Dinner was nearly silent. Douglas was clearly not in the mood for conversation and neither Arthur nor Martin wanted to risk breaking the fragile peace. 

There was an awkward moment when they stood to leave. Douglas clearly didn’t want them to go, but also couldn’t seem to find the means to ask them to stay. They stood in the foyer in uneasy detente for several seconds, before Arthur pointed to the DVDs they’d just unloaded.

“You have Lord of the Rings?!” he asked.

Douglas blinked, surprised, before turning to look. “Oh. Yes, well....Emily is quite fond of the blond one. I think he’s an elf?”

Arthur grinned at him. “Only the best elf ever! Oh, I wish I had that. Mum won’t let me watch it. She says I can’t risk watching and pushing out something important like where the fire extinguishers on Gertie are or our phone number.”

Douglas gave the smallest of smiles. Arthur, once again, had solved the problem in his own inimitable way. “Well, I suppose we could watch it, if you like. I haven’t yet discovered all the best haunts around here yet, so it’s not as if anyone’s expecting me anywhere.”

Arthur’s grin grew three sizes bigger. “Could we?! Oh, thanks, Douglas!”

“You’re welcome to stay as well, if you like,” Douglas said to Martin.

Martin agreed, and before long, the three of them were engrossed in the first of the series, in the same positions as they were before. Martin was so engaged that it’s nearly two-thirds of the way through the film before he looked over at Douglas and realized the older man had fallen asleep. The lines that had settled between his eyes in recent weeks were still there, but his jaw had lost most of the tension it once held. Douglas looked, if not relaxed, more at ease, which was just about all Martin supposed they could hope for. Carefully, cautiously, he stood up, snagging the blanket off the back of the sofa and draping it over Douglas’s form, gently pulling the glass from his precarious hold. Arthur grinned at him from across the room and lowered the volume.

They finished the DVD and stood to leave, but Douglas stirred at the sudden silence. Martin made a split-second command decision and the two of them settled down for the rest of the films, sneaking glances at Douglas out of the corners of their eyes. He didn’t stir through the second movie, nor the third, and Martin and Arthur soon joined him in slumber, stretched out on the sofa and the floor respectively. 

Martin was the first to wake the next morning, and after he quashed his initial embarrassment, he stumbled into the kitchen to find supplies for coffee. Douglas wandered in not long after the first pot was ready, scratching the back of his head and yawning broadly. He blinked in confusion when Martin pressed a mug into his hands, but asked no questions, choosing instead to sit beside the younger man at the table. They didn’t talk, just satthere sipping from their mugs. It was a comfortable silence, diametrically different from the icy quiet he had had with Helena, and Douglas found himself relaxing minutely in the warmth of Martin’s presence. They let Arthur sleep for another hour before Martin nudged him awake and took him home. Before they left, however, Douglas was treated to a bear hug from Arthur and a slightly-more-awkward embrace from Martin. Douglas promised them that he’d call if he needed anything further and they left.

The silence of the flat was staggering in the wake of Arthur’s cheerful exuberance and Martin’s stammering good will. Douglas stood in the foyer for a bit before squaring his shoulders. He’d fallen many times, but he considered himself something of an expert at getting up again. The trick was just to keep moving. With that in mind, he headed for the shower, ready to start unpacking. Before he made it to the boxes, however, he noticed a small white envelope on the pillow with his name written on the front in Martin’s cramped hand. _Of course,_ he thought. _A bill for a full day’s work. It’s only fitting, after all._

He opened it, scanning quickly before sitting heavily on the bed. There, in a mixture of Martin’s script and Arthur’s scrawling print was a short letter.  
“Douglas,” it read. “We’re sorry to hear about you and Helena (“Mrs. Richardson #3,” Arthur’d written helpfully). If there’s ever anything we can do, or something you need, or would like, or something we can _not_ do, or anything else like that, you know where to find us (in the galley!). Please don’t suffer in silence, if for no other reason than you being grumpy makes Carolyn grumpy, and then the knives come out. Remember you have friends, and that they’re quite fond of you, even if you are a smug, sarcastic git sometimes. We’ve left you something in the cupboard by the fridge that we hope you’ll enjoy.” The letter was signed “Captain Crieff” and “Arthur Shappey.”

Douglas smiled fondly at the letter, feeling a bit of moisture at the back of his eyes. He cleared his throat and returned to the kitchen, opening the specified cupboard. There, in the arms of a stuffed polar bear, was the largest Kit Kat he’d ever seen. And next to it, leaning carefully against the side, was a framed picture of the members of MJN, standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the Fitton runway, shielding their eyes against the sun and looking away from the camera. With a fond smile, he dug out a hammer and a nail and hung the picture directly above the fireplace, then stood back to admire his work. With a wry smile, he saluted the picture jauntily then headed back to his room, to start putting his life back together.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta/Britpicking thanks as always to Sproid, mxdp, and Pudu.


End file.
